Faith in Love
by Filia Nocis
Summary: Spillow. Entangled. Trapped. Fate has its own special way of manipulating two wayward souls. Warning: dark, mature
1. 1 take you home

And here I present my own Spillow ramblings. Giving all the credit to Joss Whedon, but of course.

***

1. take you home

Alright, admittedly, a midnight stroll through the streets of Sunnydale was a bad plan. Possibly even a horrible plan. But there was a small kernel of hope that perhaps this time the Powers That Be would let her off with just a warning.

Nah. In the land of the vampires, being the best friend of the Slayer has its drawbacks. Nevertheless, young Willow Rosenberg reasons (as she so oft does) that she has created an almost camouflage with the aid of heels and a short skirt. And black nail polish. Clearly too risqué for anyone to recognize her. Clearly.

The counterargument to the "incognito" point is that, for her, "incognito" roughly translates to "standing out" from the Latin root "not thinking ahead." She's two-thirds of the way to the Bronze and so has mathematically ruled out the option of turning around. Why, of all the times she's opted to even go and be social, did she pick a time when Slayer escort was temporarily unavailable and the scourge of Europe was undoubtedly terrorizing the town?

At what point exactly did she ever think this was a good plan?

Her pace quickens, and she nervously pushes a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. Five-sixths of the way. Stupid suburbia and its distance from… urbia. _Just keep walking_, she tells herself.

The guy she just passed goes to school with her. In the day. Ergo, not a vampire. Seven-eighths of the way there. In fact, she can see the line to get in and there's safety in numbers so she's safe from vampires in a crowd and –

Air whooshes from her lungs. Her sudden exhalation matches the instantaneous display of force that has slammed her against a wall. "What have we here, Ken?" the vampire gripping her shoulders asks the vampire finishing up his smoke.

"From the looks of it, I would say dinner for two, Brandon," Ken (unfortunately not the harmless, plastic, Barbie doll) answers the rhetorical question as he strolls towards menacing Brandon and captive Willow. She tries to remember how to scream as she stares at their wholly demonic visages.

"Wait," she says breathlessly, unable to form any other word.

"Wait for what, sweetie?" Brandon murmurs close to her face, his breath reeking of death and blood. Ken grins as he comes close enough to see her terror-stricken face.

Her normally peaches-and-cream complexion has gone bloodless, but her mouth still remembers words even if her brain screams on mindlessly. "Who do you work for?" she blurts. Latching onto a dim hope, her brain quiets enough to formulate the best plan it can come up with.

"What?" Ken frowns at her with disgruntled confusion. Not the brightest crayon in the box, but he appears to be the brighter of the two.

Her mouth runs without even bothering to make sense. "Angelus wants me. He and Spike want the Slayer and her friends and I'm the Slayer's friend and they'd totally flip if I was hurt without their permission so you should both probably just –" Words flee her mouth driven by the burst of stars that invades her skull. The distant thought that perhaps her attempt at stalling has made a bad situation worse chases her into unconsciousness.

"Shit," Brandon stutters as he looks at the limp redhead in his arms.

"Shit, indeed," Ken agrees. "Let's drop off the girl at Angelus's mansion and find another meal. I don't fancy either of those two psychos out for my blood." Ken's spine shivers in terror as potent as Willow's as the girl in question is hefted onto Brandon's shoulder. Ken starts down the alley as his friend follows him into the inky dark.

***

A review would be vastly appreciated…


	2. 2 don't lose

And we continue…

***

2. don't lose

Perhaps Spike's temper has been worse. But he's at least progressed to the state of cold fury that has always meant death in the past. Therefore it is with good reason that his minions are walking on tiptoe tonight. Wheelchair or not, the bleached sociopath seems fully capable of effecting death by strangulation involving the intermediate process of evisceration. Not that any of his minions are stupid cowards or anything. Certainly not.

So when the doorbell dared ring, not a one of them did not rush to get it with the express fear that imminent death would follow should the infernal doorbell disturb his infernal master.

Hushed whispers and low murmurs were all that marked the door's opening. After less than a minute of terse exchanges, the two visiting vampires pushed their large package into the waiting arms opposite the threshold. When the door did close, the mansion's minions could only stare, dumbfounded, at the limp body and tranquil face of the Slayer's best friend.

A few nervous glances pass and result in a solemn stairway procession. Angelus and Drusilla are gone. The highest ranked vampire remaining would get the Rosenberg girl, and that would be he of the violent mood swings. Joy.

The head minion knocks on Spike's door, eliciting a roar akin to "What?!" The minion opens the door to find Spike on his bed with game face fully on. Another minion comes forward with Willow's unconscious form. His somewhat silent wrath quiets into a puzzlement that softens his overtly ridged brow into a merely quizzical furrow. "Leave her on the bed. And get out." Unsurprisingly, they do.

Spike lowers himself into his wheelchair and rolls over to the door. He then locks it and returns to the bed. She is sprawled on his crimson sheets, red hair mussed and mingling with the bed's vibrant color. Her long creamy legs stretching up into a twisted, bunched, little skirt. And such delicate, little feet encased in… stilettos. "Oh, dear, Red. Weren't we just dressed to impress?" he whispers silkily as he trails his fingertips from her small ankle along her smooth leg to her even smoother thighs. She shifts slightly.

"Bloody hell," he growls as he snatches his hand back. He glares down at her, at her shaven legs. Dru never shaved. She didn't care. He was expected to shave his face, but she would never –

There. The first stirrings of hot rage.

What would piss Angelus off the most? He could kill the girl. Slaughter her himself, strip Angelus of that particular joy, and then leave her on the Slayer's porch. Let Angelus throw a fit while Dru clings to him in mindless adoration.

No.

Fuck him.

She shifts in her sleep again. An evil smirk curves his lips. Look at her. On the verge of waking, but so completely clueless. "Re—ed," he croons in a sing-song voice. She frowns without waking. He raises his voice, "Time to wake up, Red."

Her reaction is… amusing. She starts awake and looks at him, then promptly scrambles to the other side of the bed. He can taste her heartbeat in his mouth. "Oh, I wouldn't try screaming, dear. It won't do you any good," he drawls in his Cockney accent. Her pulse spikes and her eyes dart around, searching futilely for escape. Eventually, it dawns on her that she is alone, human in a mansion of ravening vampires, in a room with a psychotic mass-murderer. Her wide eyes return to his.

His smirk widens, impossibly wicked. "Now then, Red. Why are you here?" he asks, actually curious.

"I-" she breathes and freezes. He raises an eyebrow. She swallows and continues, "I got caught."

"Well, I thought that was already apparent," he muses. He puts his chin on the bed. "Try again. This time, specifics. As in, why are you _here_?"

She trembles. "I told them." He is silent, his gaze falling on her tremulous mouth. "I told the vampires that grabbed me who I was and that you and Angelus wanted me," she addresses his silence.

He is surprised, shocked even. He raises his sharp gaze to her eyes and asks her, "Why? Why, Red? What did you think was going to happen? That we were going to have you for tea and crumpets and send you on your merry way?"

"I don't know," she whispers. Sweetly frightened. God! His mouth waters. "I just thought—"

"That you wouldn't die?" He gives a harsh, abrasive laugh. "You're going to die slowly and painfully. You'll probably get dumped on your bitch friend's doorstep when you finally breathe your last. Think she'll be happy to see you?" His words have actually sent tears down her face.

"Please," she whimpers. More tears escape her shining eyes.

He has a moment of pity, staring into her tear-stained face. The moment fades easily. "Actually, I am rather bored," he sighs. "So." His smirk is truly devilish. "I'll make you a deal, Willow Rosenberg." She looks at him, her face torn equally between hope and fear. "If you can make it out that door," he gestures vaguely in its direction, "I'll let you go. I'll tell all my lackeys to let you just walk out, completely unharmed."

Her eyebrows furrow and she blurts, "Why would you --?"

"Hush," he growls. Her mouth closes, and her eyes widen even more, and he fights to suppress a malevolent grin. "I'm not finished. You'll listen, yeah?" She nods quickly. "If you can't get out, if I get to you before you can make it over that threshold," he pauses, looking deeply at her, "then you're mine." She looks confused. "You'll do exactly what I tell you to," now she looks horrified. He almost smiles. "Anything I want, everything I want."

She is thinking, weighing her chances, eyeing his handicap. Surely there's something she's missing. Some trick. Something. "Why?"

He chuckles. She's already his. "Because I'm bored," he drawls. "Deal?" he asks, eyes glinting.

She nods and jumps off the bed. She's dashing for the door, but can't hear his wheelchair. She grabs the knob and pulls. Locked. Her heart in her throat, she begins to fumble with the lock when she sees the dark shadow above hers.

A violent tremor grips her spine, and she unlocks the door and pulls. It doesn't budge. She looks up, to her left, to her right, and finds two, pale hands, braced on either side of her head, holding the door in place.

"You lose," a cool, dry voice breathes into her ear. He is pleased she couldn't hear his soft footsteps. Pleased to see her slowly turn around and stare horrified into his eyes inches away, her small, vulnerable body giving another violent shudder.

***

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Sneak peek:

"You cheated," she whispers. "You're not in your wheelchair."

He leans closer, placing his mouth close enough to hers to taste her breath, roll the fear around on his tongue. "You assumed," he murmurs. The feel of his cool breath against her lips makes her heart jump, her eyes close. Doomed. He moves forward. His nose pressed against her hair, he breathes her in, swallows her warm scent and the heady, coppery tang of blood so close to the surface.

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the door's solid wood. "Get on the bed," he murmurs. She doesn't move. He grabs her upper arms with a bruising grip and pins her soft frame between the solidness of door and vampire. He lowers his head again and hisses to her horror, "Get. On. The bed." He lets her go. "Now."


End file.
